The Dark Man
by Lynn Osburn
Summary: CHAPTER 5&6 UP! As memories return, Mozenrath must endure what he was, and decide who he will be. RR Sequal to The Lost Man.
1. Chapter 1

_The wind whipped around his turban, slamming against the protection of his thick cloak and clothing. _"Damn Gaulish weather." _Mozenrath griped to himself and, not for the first time, wished he'd brought Xerxes along for the ride. The little eel wasn't much help, but at least he could have tied a rope over head to make the climbing easier. _

_Also, not for the first time, he swore to kill whoever had come up with the annoying (if brilliant) idea of creating a boundary that forbade the use of magic around this mountain. His gauntlet was little more than a scrap of leather on his fist, which meant, that he had to do everything, ironically, by hand. _

_But even without his glove, he could feel it's presence above. It would not be visible to human eyes, but a light like the sun itself shone several hundred feet above him. Calling…no **screaming** with intense magical power. It lashed over him with a fire brand, a power more cataclysmic than any he'd ever encountered. If he could just reach it. _

_It had taken Mozenrath years to discover its hidden location. Years and lives to find this source of ancient power. Local legend held that it was once the property of the Tuatha De Danann, the old race of the Otherworld, who had inhabited the island before the invasion of the Milesians. They had used four object of great power to fight against their invaders, but eventually, retreated into the _Sidhe. _Many spoke of seeing these strange and ethereal creature, with eyes that captivated the soul and fogged the mind, on nights when the moon was full and the grass wet with dew. _

**Stories to frighten children**. _Mozenrath convinced himself. After all, if such a race of near god-like creatures had existed, how could they allow mere mortals to defeat them? Mozenrath reached for the next hand hold and hauled himself up the mountain side. Peasants were a stupid lot, easily coerced into superstitions and folk lore. But then again, that just made them easier to control. _

_It took him several hours to reach the spot where the _mana _flowed like the ocean around him. He staggered to his feet, to eager to allow weakness to control him now. _"Yes…" _Mozenrath whispered as he looked into the cave before him. Torches, long unused and unlit stood along the walls, leading the way into a darkness that opened wide like a mouth. He tried his gauntlet, attempting to bring enough light to see by. The fire there was snuffed automatically and Mozenrath grimaced. _"All right. Play it your way for now."

_He took a torch from the wall and searched around till he found a piece of flint. It took several tries and a great deal of cursing before the torch caught and illuminated the halls around him. If the sight was forbidding before, it was now entrancing. _

_Carved into the walls was a tale unlike any he had ever seen. People, standing tall and proud were chiseled into the rock and stone with patters that could make one go cross eyes if he stared too long. They found on hoarse back and foot, battling naked with great swords erect and plunging into enemies hearts. The colors painted onto the figures had not paled, though it was obvious that the carvings were centuries old. _

_Mozenrath tore himself away from the sight with some difficulty. He was not here to admire the native art work. But as he pushed his way through the tunnels he could not help but to look around himself at the majesty of it. It was comparable with the art work of the Pharaoh's tombs in his mother's home land. Not in the initial design, but rather in the pride of a peoples history and legends. He could admire that._

_As he traveled deeper into the hills, Mozenrath came upon a great pool of water. He lifted to torch higher, and was surprised to find it expanded across the breadth of the cave. A lake, a lake inside of a mountain? This high up? Was that even possible? He gingerly touched the surface of the water and watched as it ripples outward in little half circles. Was there a way to get across? He looked along the shore line. No boat. He could try swimming, but he would have to drop the torch and that would mean loosing his light. And he doubted the item was unguarded. He was not afraid of the dark, but he did not relish fighting in it with no magic. _

_But there had to be a way across. Even if there was a trap, one had to be lured into it. He put the torch into a holder on the wall and paced back and forth to think. There was a trick to this. He just had to figure it out. Picking up pebbles, Mozenrath began to toss them casually at the surface. With a firm _plop_ the first stone sank. He curved his throw and watched for the pebble to skip across the pond. To his dismay, Mozenrath saw what should have been a perfect skip skin down just as quickly as the first stone. _

**So it's meant to pull you under once your in**. _He tapped his chin, growling at the surprise complication. He growled angrily and looked around again, searching for a clue. Finally, something caught his eyes. He didn't see how he had failed to notice it before but, sitting just outside of the torch light was a harp. Just a simple lap harp like the kind a minstrel might carry around. He pulled it into the light, examining the instrument carefully. It was of expert quality, curved and beautiful to the gaze. He slipped a finger around the string and plucked it experimentally. No sound emerged from the harp itself, but a beautiful, resonate note came from the lake behind him, and Mozenrath turned. Mozenrath smiled, a dark look coming over his face as he picked up the harp and strode back to the shore. Without pausing, he played a string of notes, his fingers slipping professionally across the harp. Not only did the water follow his combination, but it stirred, little concentric circles spreading from the placid surface as his fingers plucked out the notes. _

**Right, so the harp is the key.**_ He sat down against the shore line, and played out an old tune he remembered from his mothers exhausting music lessons. Once again, the music came from the liquid, and the circles stretched as his flicked the strings. But nothing else occurred. He was missing some key element. He began to pluck through the cords of a song absently, watching the pool as if waiting for a response. Before he knew it, Mozenrath had begun to humm, and that's when it happened. _

_As he hummed in time with the song, the water backed away from him. He stood, keeping in time with the song and hummed a minor cord, excitement filling him as the liquid balked away from his foot steps. Music. He had to sing as well as play for the lake to obey him. _**Simple, but one must admire the effectiveness. **_No doubt if a person was not capable of playing, or of singing sufficiently, the water would forbid admittance. _

_Mozenrath took a deep breath into his lungs and positioned his fingers against the cords. He would not be able to carry the torch with him, but he suspected he would be led in the right direction some other way. Another few deep breaths, and Mozenrath walked towards the waters edge, playing the little harp and singing._

**Oh, the summer time is coming,  
And the trees are blooming,   
And the wild mountain thyme  
Grows around the blooming heather.**

**Will you go, lassie, will you go?  
And we'll all go together  
To pull wild mountain thyme  
All around the blooming heather,  
Will you go, lassie, go?**

**I will build my love a bower  
By yon clear and crystal fountain,  
And all around the bower,  
I'll pile flowers from the mountain.**

**If my true love, she won't have me,  
I will surely find another   
To pull wild mountain thyme  
All around the blooming heather.**

_It was as if a path had suddenly been cut through the lake. It spread before him till the bottom of the pond, showing shiny rocks and stones that gave off a strange, ethereal blue light. Grinning to himself, Mozenrath continued singing as he walked, following where the paths led him. _

_He had to go through nearly seven songs before a new shore line came to his eyes. He sped up, almost out of songs to sing. The moment his feet touched the ground again, a loud crash erupted from behind him and the walls of the pond slammed back against one another. He watched as the water settled within seconds, going back to its calm, placid state as if nothing had changed. Mozenrath plucked the harp string gingerly and was satisfied to see the water resonate. This would undoubted provide him a way back._

_To his delight, the way was now lit for him, the same artistic drawings on the cave walls illuminated brilliantly. A holder for the harp was against the drawings and Mozenrath set the instrument down, confident it would be there when he returned. _

_It didn't take long to travel the well lit path, and Mozenrath began to feel he was coming close to his goal. In fact he was sure of it. Where the painted drawings had been as clear as if done yesterday, they were beginning to look pealed and faded away. A sure sign of strong magic working away at the fixative. As he turned a corner, he had to crane his neck to take in the full sight._

_A pair of massive doors stood before him, taller than seven men and made of bronze and gold. A woman with wild hair stood behind a great cauldron, her arms spread around the lip as she gazed into it. This was it…he had found the resting place. _

_Mozenrath approached, barely daring to draw a breath. The magic here was so consuming he could almost call it a consciousness all its own. He lifted his hand once, and was disgusted to see himself shaking. He jerked away, forcing himself to regain composure. Once again, Mozenrath lifted his gauntleted hand out to open the door…_


	2. Chapter 2

It was Beltane at long last. Savern had been kidnapped, and everyone was rejoicing.

Mozenrath took another long swig of mead and sat across from a laughing Tristan. "Now…" he yelled with a smirk. "Explain this to me again…" he said, barely holding in a rancorous laugh. It was hard to make yourself heard in the crowd. Everyone was holding food, drink, and a woman (in some cases more than one). Singing and dancing, drums and pipes, laughing and carousing made such a din the birds flew off to seek quieter surroundings.

Tristan chuckled. "Right. Savern is of the Warrior class, being old Fergus's only daughter. That means that certain procedures are in…hic…order when she chooses a husbad…sorry…husband."

Mozenrath had to struggle not to burst out laughing at his friend. He had never thought someone like Tristan could hold his liquor, but the Chief Druid had drunk three stout men under the table before starting to slur a little in his speech. "Go on." He encouraged.

"Well, when a warrior's daughter, or any noble born girl, finally chooses a husband for herself, he has to go through a kind of grace period. First, his father and mother meet with her father and mother and make agreements on the dowry. His isn't so much like selling off your children, as the property belongs to the daughter as much as the son, but more of a way of making sure that the new couple will have a comfortable, provided start." Tristan took another swig and chewed off a piece of bread for himself. "From there, the couple usually lives together for a year before finally wedding, just to make sure, but from what I understand our young Savern just had to have this one right now."

"Bull shit." Ossian snorted in good humor. "I think Fergus had a bit to do with the quickness of this marriage. He's tired of having to support that good wench and is glad to have her off on another." He belched deeply and chuckled. "Not to say Savern isn't happy. They said she damn near kidnapped him!" These words brought another loud whoop of laughter from the men surrounding them.

"That. The kidnapping business. What's all that got to do with a marriage?" Mozenrath said, not sounding nearly as drunk as he actually was.

"It's an old tradition, coming from back when we used to actually kidnap women as wives from other villages." Tristan answered. "The night of the couples wedding, right after the ceremony, the new bride is whisked off to her bedchambers, her father and a brother 'standing guard' at the door. Later on during the night, after the feast…"

"And after everyone's sobered up a bit." Ossian chuckled.

"The groom comes for his bride. He 'fights' through the brother and father, showing the brides family that he is a strong, capable man who is well and able to provide and protect his daughter and their future off spring."

"Then, he 'kidnaps' the bride, showing to her that he is head of the house hold, and has the final word in what happens." Ossian finished and was immediately smacked in the head with a large pan by his wife.

"That's my last word you puffed up old bastard!" She growled out at him as the half drunk man tried to apologize and retreat at the same time.

"It has another benefit as well." Iaine interjected as the men laughed and taunted. "The groom usually whisks her off to some unknown cabin in the forest for a week or so. It gives the couple time alone to get to know each other without prying relative eyes. By the time they get back to the husbands village, a new hut lodge is built up for them and their belongings have been moved. And…" added Iaine with an air of mischief. "The bride is usually good and pregnant by then."

"Ah, I see." Mozenrath chuckled and, carefully, slipped an arm around Iaine's waist. She smirked slightly, and leaned back against him. Their relationship had distinctly improved since the incident with young Pelles. She had still not given Mozenrath the opportunity to do a great many of the things he would like to be doing with her right now, but he was sincerely enjoying the close contact.

"Not that half of the brides aren't pregnant before the wedding even happens." She grinned. "We're a fertile race, strong blood and hearty folk make for quick and easy babies." She smiled. "I can hardly think of a year when there has not been at least a dozen children born. We may have to invade somewhere within the next five years just to make sure we have enough room!"

Iaine found herself in good spirits today. She was happy to see her dear friend married, but the choice had come as something of a surprise. Everyone had thought her tied up with the Druid Essus for a while when one day she was suddenly seen in the company of a visiting Bard from down south.

He was the last kind of person anyone could have seen young, beautiful, hot blooded Savern herself to. Bard Drutwas was…well…to put it nicely he was not of the fairer Celtic people. Straw colored hair that always seemed to hang shaggy from his head. A square jaw with a lopsided mouth and high cheek bones, he was no handsome lad. But Iaine had her suspicions as to why Savern had wed the Bardic man. After all, who in their right mind would look a gift horse like Savern in the mouth? Besides, she had heard Drutwas sing, and that voice was more than enough to make up for any outward shortcomings.

She looked across the commons area to where Essus was sitting. He didn't give one whit about his lover leaving, or if he did, he was well mollified by the pretty blond serving him ale. Iaine shrugged and sliced off a bit of cheese for herself. "I can hardly believe you've been here for a full turn of seasons Mozenrath." She said suddenly and looked him over. "I can't believe the man sitting at my side now was this skinny, pale little foreign boy with an ego big as all Erie."

"I wasn't all that bad!" He said, insulted.

"No…perhaps not…" Iaine leaned forward and quickly kissed his cheek. "But close." She was a little surprised at her own behavior. After all, she was usually quite forward and confident when it came to a man she set her sights on. But with Mozenrath she found herself playing to coy lass role. To be truthful she was enjoying the little teasing game. She could lead him on for a little while, giving him just a small sampling of what she truly intended, and then back away, as though embarrassed to have done such a thing.

But then again she had had a while to watch Mozenrath and learn his strangeness. He was, like many men, ultimately fickle and prone to impulse decisions. But what attracted her to him was how he could seemingly disappear into thought for hours on end, sharing his thoughts with no one else. Whatever he did, he did with a passion, a fever for learning and experience that nearly eclipsed her own. He was intelligent, a thinker, though could fight well as some of the younger men (if not the honed warriors). He enjoyed puzzles and mind games, a pleasure he could only fully indulge with Tristan. Mozenrath had an eye for beauty and a deep, secretive caring for weaker things that any woman would find intriguing.

It had taken her time to learn these things. Time of watching silently and listening to what others in the village said of him. A man like that was hard to get, even harder to keep, for, like children, they found constant excitement in anything new and unexplored. It was the kind of attitude that could be pleasurable and frustrating at the same time.

Yes, in order to have and keep a man like Mozenrath, Iaine would have to remain a woman unto herself. She knew she could love him easily (assuming she did not already), but he would have to discover that for himself. **Keep him guessing.** She was warned from inside. **Keep him intrigued and entertain his mind as well as his body. Then…we shall see…**


	3. Chapter 3

Aladdin grinned as he soared high above the ocean, the magic carpet keeping him well entertained on the long flight across seas by doing flips and turns and spirals. Aladdin laughed as a voice at his back perked up.

"Yo ho yo ho a pirates life fer me: A large blue djinn dressed to the hilt in an elaborate pirate suit, including dread locks, bandanna with a skull, and knee high boots floated up beside him, breathing in the air. "Arrgh matey, the sweet air of the salty sea!" He sucked in a large breath through his nose and coughed out harshly. "Enough to put hair on your chest."

"Come on Genie." Aladdin laughed and settled back onto Carpet. "Well be reaching Gaul any time now and I don't really know how they'd take someone like you."

"Someone like me huh?" The djinn gave a grin and morphed into a short man wearing a sparkly black suit and sporting a closely shaven head. "It's cause I'm blue huh?"

Aladdin shook his head, not really getting the joke. "Anyways, it's my first official assignment as Royal Vizier to the Sultan. I need to make a good impression on these people. Living all the way out in the ocean like this, they might not know how to take a djinn and a magic carpet appearing on their shores."

"With the load your carrying you could arrive wearing a pink tutu atop a singing gorilla and they wouldn't care." Genie looked back to the cargo they were carrying. Spices unique to the Persians, silks and satins and other tradable things had been piled on as high as Carpet could carry. The wealth they brought was sure to inspire good relationships between the Arabians and the Celtic people.

"Yeah but I want to be sure. I heard that the Celts are hard to deal with, shrewd traders and fierce warriors. I'd rather my first attempt at diplomacy not be ended on a sword point." Aladdin grimaced and tugged at his high collar. Personally, he despised being in all this fancy clothing and thought he might be better received if he looked a little less like a pompous ass. But it was one of many sacrifices he had made now that he was the Princess's husband. His time, Aladdin had come to discover, was very rarely his own. He was expected to attend everything from minor common squabbles over live stocks to war councils. And, if he missed one single meeting, it was politely suggested that he did not take his duties as future Sultan seriously.

Sometimes he didn't know how Jasmine and her father did it.

That was why, when it was decided that the steal and metal working of the Celts would be worth the effort in trade, Aladdin eagerly seize the opportunity for a break from palace life. A month without having to worry about other peoples problems and priorities. Just a simple trade establishment and he could relax for a while.

Another part of what he missed as a street rat. The freedom. He rarely, if ever, got to see beyond the palace walls anymore. He now fully understood why Jasmine had felt so trapped and imprisoned. She sympathized with him, and promised to find a break in their schedules to do what they missed. Jasmine longed for the open skies as much as he did, and had even less freedom now that she was a properly married Arabic woman. There was twice as much on her shoulders, being expected to get pregnant as soon as possible and provide as many heirs to the throne as she could.

But, as Jasmine had told him gently, that was the price you paid for power. They were ruling a kingdom, and as royalty their lives no longer belonged to themselves. It only looked like the lap of luxury, that was the benefit of shouldering all of the responsibility and troubles of a country. "Some compensation huh?" she had smiled and kissed him softly.

Oh he was going to miss her very much over the next month.

"Wow…"

Aladdin looked up at the world from his friend and soon felt his jaw drop at the sight before them. Huge, craggy white cliffs rose before them, topped with a green more pure and vivid than the finest emeralds in the world. Swirling mists rose from the sea just as the sun broke through the cloudy sky, casting an almost ethereal glow over the island landscape. It was like coming upon a piece of Paradise, broken off and fallen into the ocean. Aladdin's eyes bulged at the unbelievable landscape stretched before him. "Genie…this is…amazing. I had no idea it would be so…green!"

"Green as a clover on a spring day laddie." The djinn had morphed again, this time into a squat, red haired little man dressed in a lime green bowler hat and carrying a bowl of multi colored shapes. "Lucky Charms?" he asked inquiringly.


	4. Chapter 4

Your moist, warm breath upon my skin  
Ignites a pulsing flame within

Mozenrath was forced to jump out of the way as a very young girl carrying a massive bundle of dyed cloths rushed by, her mother threatening death if she dropped them. It was barely sun up and already people had begun to gather their wares and produce. It took someone time to understand the method of this madness, but Mozenrath had grasped the general meaning of all this hustle and bustle and assorted commotion.

Word had arrived just after Beltane that a trader from off the island was coming. He had already visited two clans just east of them and seemed to be wording his way westward, bringing fine goods and wares. As soon as the messenger had arrived the whole village was on task, bringing out their richest goods for show. The entire village shown with the Celtic pride in their craft and efforts. Everyone was dressed in their best to greet the guests as was custom. Traders, like Druids, held passage even through bandit infested territories. It was an old custom, from back when the only people who really traveled from village to village were war parties, and merchants. Traders, unlike the latter of the two, not only brought their wares, but news from his travels. If a trader was accosted or offended, not only would he not return to the clan, he would spread news of their lacking hospitality. Thus a village could become isolated and ignored.

Traders had amnesty. And they were well entitled.

The Druids were not immune to the excitement. They too ran through the village…well not really ran. **A Druid was meant to conduct themselves as though the comings and goings of this world were of little consequence.** Mozenrath reminded himself and automatically slowed his pace. They walked, even if summoned by the High king of Ireland himself, they walked. It was just that today, they were walking a little faster. Mozenrath himself had little to trade, but he was assigned by Tristan to welcome the trader along with Chief Luchtain.

There were duties to be preformed, much of them he would have little to do with. A woman would offer hot water for bathing and a meal would be prepared to welcome the man from his long, hard road. He would be treated to a festival near worthy of nobility and at the end of the night, would retire to a hut with (no doubt) a willing young woman eager for first pick at his wares. Trading never began straight away, let him see the vibrancy of this culture, of these people. He'll long to take some away just for himself and the prices will skyrocket.

Mozenrath chuckled, pleased to be a part of it all.

A horn sounded over head as a man swung down from atop a tree. "The trader is coming!" he announced happily, carrying with him a huge instrument which he blew through again. "The trader is coming!"

The village positively swarmed together with excitement. The welcoming party consisted of three buxom young women, their assignments to offer the man a bath, fresh clothing, and (if he wished) a warm bed for the night. Chief Luchtain was there, dressed in his finest and decked with gold and bronze, showing the wealth of the clan, a small guard of the strongest men, showing the clans ferocity and prowess in battle, and, of course, Mozenrath, as representative of the Druids. He was there to show the strength of the clans ties with the Gods and Spirits.

As the man entered the village Mozenrath tried to get a better look at him. At first he was indiscernible from the rest of the Celts due to his clothing. He smiled vaguely, remembering his first reactions to the chilly air constant in this part of the world. No doubt he'd taken it upon himself to robe appropriately. But as he removed his hood it became obvious that this young man was no native. He had skin the color of shadowy sand and hair black as coal. His eyes were like warm hazelnuts as he shook hands with Chief Luchtain and was being introduced to the important members of the populace.

Mozenrath felt a queer clutching in his stomach, something like he was going to be sick. He swallowed hard and concentrated on proper breathing. He couldn't afford to loose his composure now. The young trader was being led to him and Mozenrath extended his right hand, still covered in the soft glove he'd been given shortly after awakening. "Hail and welcome traveler…"he felt a strong, firm grip slip into his own and in the same instant, knew something was wrong.

Two eyes, so familiar yet so distanced met, and the air between them became thick with strife.

'_This one shows…flair.'_

'_Yeah right…your barely older than me.'_

Another flesh of memory returning…

'_Your out of your mind Mozenrath!'_

'_Ah no but soon I will be out of my body!'_

And further on…

'_Big word from someone behind bars in his own dungeon!'_

'_Maybe he needs a girlfriend…'_

"You!"

"Mozenrath!" Spoken in shock and confusion.

"Aladdin…"the syllables strung out in blind hatred.

And in one split second, the battle had begun.


	5. Chapter 5

Tristan did not have to push forward into the gathering crowd. There was a great deal of yelling and cursing coming from the epicenter, and he feared he knew what was happening.

Mozenrath felt a hard punch land in his eye, sending sparks through his vision. He staggered back wards but caught himself before falling, swinging round to catch Aladdin with a hard right in the stomach. He wasn't fully aware of the pain in his sides where he'd been kicked but he was aware of the street rat before him.

Another part of him, the last ration piece of his mind begged him to stop. What was the point in this? Why was he fighting this man? What point did it serve? In the crowd he saw a face, glimpsed a few strands of honey gold and bronze red hair, accompanied by hazel eyes lidded in sadness. "Iaine…" he muttered out and watched as she turned from him, disappearing into the forest surroundings.

Aladdin's fist brought him back to the current situation. Mozenrath felt a burning, horrible anger consume his insides. "You…!" he rounded and brought his own knuckles to Aladdin's cheek bone.

The hero turned back to him, ready to continue the fight. His mind didn't quite grasp why the sorcerer had not yet used his gauntlet. But he did register the pupils of Mozenrath's eyes dilating further and further, consuming even the whites. "What in the…" heat emanated from Mozenrath's body just as the wizard began to surge forward.

The sound of a staff striking the ground echoed in the area. Without warning the ground began to shake, the trees moaning as they swayed too and fro. The sun itself seemed to cower behind the clouds as wind whipped through the village, ripping dust and rocks in it's wake. The fighting between the two men paused as they searched for the cause.

It stopped as suddenly as it began. There was a swift, sudden swish behind him and Mozenrath felt the end of Tristan's staff knock squarely on the back of his head. Mozenrath spun, ready to fight back and was stopped dead in his tracks by Tristan's furious gaze. Druid…Tristan…" he searched for the words to explain himself.

The Chief Druid silenced his platitudes and grit his teeth angrily. "You…will go to my lodge." He stressed every last word as though barely restraining temperament. "You have shamed me." He whispered as Mozenrath slowly made to move past him, face growing redder every moment. Tristan turned to Aladdin, eyes cold as stone. "You…are currently excused for your lack of manners. No doubt being foreign you did not know that Druids are immune…forbidden harm by all."

Aladdin nearly argued, but his political training saved him at the last moment. He was being given a way out from public embarrassment. Sure enough, as he looked at the faces of the gathered crowd, many of them were turned up in distaste or shock at his actions. He could see others dressed in the pure white cloth he had seen in other villages and vaguely remembered another local chieftain warning him about the power Druids held both in spiritual matters and the hierarchy of a government. "I…apologies…for any disruption…but sir…the man I fought with…you should know there are things in his past…"

"Which are better left for a private discussion." Tristan finished shortly. His temper frayed. "We _will_ discuss this to it's fullest extent. However until that time you are our guest young trader Aladdin." He did not bother to explain how the bloody hell he knew the young foreigners name with out being told. No body would ask. He was a Druid, Druids just know these things. Tristan looked to Luchtain and the leader nodded, accepting the judgment for now.

Luchtain was a warrior of many years, and a leader to his people for all of them. He knew a feud when he saw one. But what bothered him was not the lack of respect for a Druids station, but what would drive a man to ignore it. He did not interfere with Druid work, though as lord here he had more reason and right to ask question than most others. He had always taken it for granted that he was out of his depth and left spirituality to those who knew it best. But the foreigner Mozenrath…accepted as he was by the Druids, had caused him some distress.

The lord of the tribe held his own council for now and extended his hand to the trader. At least in these matters he knew what to do.

At the edge of the crowd, standing with his arms crossed and a smirk on his handsome features, was Essus, looking at the young Arab and thinking to himself.


	6. Chapter 6

Mozenrath paced back and forth in Tristan's lodge, his chest rising and falling heavily. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists, his temper boiling just near over. Everything about his life was coming back to him in a flash. He remembered his life in the Citadel, his countless battles with the street rat. His constant attempts to conquer Agrabah.

Something else pushed forward in his memory as well. Slowly, almost fearfully, Mozenrath lifted his right hand and slipped off his gloved covering. The bleached bone digits disgusted him, even now when he remembered how they had come to be. He ran his finger, his fleshed fingers over them slowly, as if becoming accustomed to them again. "My gauntlet…" He heard the flap open and rounded on the interloper. "Where is my gauntlet old man!"

Tristan arched his eyebrow as he regarded the sorcerer. "You will never see it again." He said shortly.

Rage flooded his system again, but he grossly underestimated the Chief Druid's strength. The moment he had begun to charge Mozenrath found himself laid flat on the floor, face pushed into the dirt with the heel of a staff. "Let me up you…"

Tristan spun the staff and rapped Mozenrath's skull again. "Perhaps if I hit you hard enough you'll lose your memory again and my friend will return."

Mozenrath struggles stopped suddenly and he looked out of the corner of his eye at the Druid. "Your…what?"

"My friend." Tristan pulled his walking stick back and leaned on it as if very tired. "Perhaps you have seen him. He resembles you a great deal, though his common sense is generally better."

Mozenrath sat up, looking at the old man as though he had never seen him before. "I…I did not know you saw me that way."

Tristan nodded. He had been very careful not to make their relationship seem to be more than that of master and pupil. Though at time, he admitted, he had shown favoritism to a most talented student. "I did…but your actions today…" he stroked his beard thoughtfully. "But I suppose it is in part my fault. I kept things from you…things that perhaps if you had known…"

"You knew!" Mozenrath felt his temper rise again. "You knew who I was…what I am and you never told me!" He rose to his feet, hands clenched. "How dare you old man! How dare you keep my life and my power from me…"

"Do you remember Destaine?"

Mozenrath shook involuntarily and clenched his jaw. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"He has a great deal to do with you Mozenrath. He is the man responsible for shaping you to your current state." Tristan looked up at him as though studying a curious item. "I was wondering…with your memory now returned…how much of him do you remember?"

"Why bother telling you, especially since you already seem to know." Mozenrath snapped back, trying to appear stronger. Inside he shivered, the repressed scenes of nights spent in pain and terror rising like ugly black snakes in his mind.

"Yes…I do know. I know a great many things about you…though most of them I heard second hand or deduced from my gentle nudging in your mind." Tristan waited for a violent reaction, but was a little surprised to see Mozenrath leaning on a shelf for support.

"How…how much did you know…" He asked carefully, a swell rising in his throat.

"I knew of you by reputation. When you began to share your dreams with me during our training sessions, I began to see more of you, but as a person, not a sorcerer." Tristan. "I know why you dram of being invaded inside. I know why you chose to give your hand in order for the power to destroy the man who violated you. You are not the first man who made sacrifices for revenge Mozenrath. Nor are you the first to become what you hated." Tristan reached over slowly and put a comforting hand on the younger mans shoulder. "_He_ made sure of that."

"Why…why did you keep me…why did you tend to me…why did you do any of this if you knew who I was!" Mozenrath hollered, a confused, almost childlike anger pushing through his body. "Why did you trust me with anything!"

"Listen to yourself Mozenrath. Who you were!" Tristan said firmly. "Even now you disassociate yourself from the man that was! Even knowing you long to separate who you are from who you were!" Tristan shook Mozenrath furiously. "Do you truly _want_ to be him? Do you long for the dark hallways and rooms filled with the memory of what was done to you and what you did to others?"

"No…" Mozenrath whispered, feeling something strange brewing behind his eyes.

"Because if you do I will kill you."

Mozenrath looked at the old man, his jaw dropped.

Tristan had no pity in his eyes. "If you are determined to the wizard of the Black Sands once more, than my duty as a Druid as clear. Knowing the full breadth of what you were capable of, I could not allow you to return and continue to corrupt the world around you." Tristan felt his gut twist as he said these words. He could no longer allow himself to feel any affection you his pupil if he would willing throw away all he had learned thus far.

"You…you…"Mozenrath shook his head…understanding Tristan more than he wanted to. He could no longer contain it. Mozenrath fell to his knees and wept. He could not hide his eyes completely through the bone of his hand. Warm tears slipped through and moistened the ground.

Tristan knelt beside his pupil, taking hold of his cheeks firmly. "To whom do we belong?"

"To the earth first, our people second, and ourselves never." Mozenrath said shakily, remembering the night he'd been initiated into the fold.

"To whom do we bow?" Tristan continued strictly.

"The lords to the kings, the kings to us, and we to the soil." Mozenrath felt the knot in his stomach begin to untie and his shaking calm. Tristan's hands felt warm and comforting against his cold cheeks. He reached up and touched them, steadying his breath and feeling the calmness come over him.

"And…in this path we have chosen…what must we give?"

"Our mind…our body…and our spirit…all for the balance of nature…" Mozenrath whispered as his mind felt clear.

"And in return for all we give, in return for all our sacrifice…we have within us the ability to awaken our innate, undeniable connection to the worlds unseen." Tristan said softly, his voice brought back to the kind old man that had been a constant in Mozenrath's life.

Mozenrath looked up into Tristan's eyes and fell into him, weeping till here were no tears left to cry.

Tristan held him, giving him the time he needed to let our his frustration and confusion. When the sobbing had stopped, the old Druid looked down and said gently. "Do you still wish for your gauntlet back?"

"No!" Said Mozenrath firmly. "I never want to see that fucking thing again." He swore.

"Good…"

"But…what are we going to do about Aladdin?"

"The trader…we will do as we have done with the traders before him. You are a Druid Mozenrath…not a sorcerer. You will compose yourself as a Druid should." Tristan ordered and knew for a fact how the act would hurt his pride. _It could do with a little bruising. Especially now._ Tristan decided. "I will do all I can to keep the two of you separate from one another."Mozenrath nodded. "However…you have disobeyed traditions in your attacking of Aladdin…just as much as he had disturbed it by attacking you." Tristan finished before Mozenrath could protest.

"He threw the first punch…" Mozenrath whispered and felt Tristan's staff slam into the back of his head again.

"That is hardly important." Tristan snapped and breathed a sigh. "If a punishment if installed for Aladdin then it must be done by the council and Luchtain, you however are a Druid and I do insist you make penance for your actions. No matter how warranted!" Tristan stopped Mozenrath's open mouth. "But…seeing as you are a Druid and we are expected to keep a certain decorum…I see no reason to make your penalty a public one."

Mozenrath bit his lip and nodded, acknowledging Tristan's authority, even if it stung his pride. He had made a big blunder, attacking a trader could do irreparable harm to the village economy, and as a Druid, better was expected of him. "What should I do then?"

"A weeks fasting and meditation." Tristan's voice boded no rebuke or complain. "You will offer sacrifice to the spirits in forgiveness for your actions. You will publicly make a trade with this man, showing no ill will brought. In the mean time I will make sure that it is stressed to Aladdin that he has done something considerably foolish and make a _suggestion_ to the council on how it is to be handled." A suggestion was as good as an order when it came to a Druid's mouth.

Mozenrath did not argue, he stood and began to leave, a strange mixture of feelings swirling around his heart.

"Mozenrath…you know you may always speak to me…freely." Tristan reminded him.

"I…I have things to think about…too many to name all at once. I will have to talk with you when they have sorted." Mozenrath said, unwilling to face his mentor any longer.

"Then you may go. I will suggest to spend the night in your own home. I doubt any feasts will take place this night."


End file.
